An Aztec temple rises before me
steps steep as a ladder
Invites a climb to a faraway summit.
Steps so narrow no foot can rest on them.
A staircase without rails
intimidates changes,
Inclines eyes to a high altar hidden in clouds.
Purpose hidden behind vaunted effort
No instructions given
Mesmerized by distance you stare at the top
Dare others take a first step,
Kid around at the bottom like children,
jump with each other
play a game of who will go first.
You leap up a step refuse to look down,
struggle to walk standing up straight,
careful not to look at the ground
fearing to fall
Forgetting to wave
Aware your direction takes you one way.
You encourage yourself tempted with desire
to learn the mystery resting out of sight.
In the back of your mind hope for honors abound
and a crowd’s humble attention pushes you forward.
The higher you climb reason goes blind,
but you keep moving your tired feet,
afraid to seek rest,
convinced the quest will gain much wanted treasure
or a discovery of something true and blessed.
Finally you reach the peak
a stone table waits
bare of offerings,
a single knife awaits on the cold slab
And no one but you left to be victim.
No treasure
No insight
No prize
No praise for the feat of climbing
this dizzying height.
A faint cheer catches your ear
Sounds like a victory chorus
celebrating transcendence.
Difficult to interpret
harder to hear
as you look back.
A festival of praise held at your expense,
with revelries you recall of ancient wild dances
and all their passion long forgotten.
They sing of a hero who wrestled with God
A builder, a teacher,
A seer — found traitor of sacred tradition.
A celebrity who struck out on his own
to gain a throne
Ready to name every fear encountered
and brave human fate
A sniff of air as the smoke ascends
clears the mind for being here.
High on the cold slab of stone
set up for worship
You find no priest to wield the blade.
So you sit alone, enjoying for a moment
the irony of your climb
this hollow victory on a hallowed mountain
Not a crime but all your own doing.
Tears slide down your weary face
as you remember the climb
grin at your fate, wonder at exhaustion
fall into a deep sleep at the altar’s feet
free of earth’s dust still incomplete.
THH
11/25/25.
Thoughts Have Hands 